Moods

I'm in a lyrical mood right now. Moods are a strange thing. This morning I was depressed and pessimistic, and now I'm just introspective and thoughtful, pondering deep things and even getting a little existential now and then. What causes moods to change? I've always tried to figure it out. My depression this morning was undoubtedly caused by my dreams last night. I definitely did not sleep well. I've always had very vivid, intense dreams that seem to create more problems than they solve. You know how dreams are supposed to be your subconscious's way of working through your problems and occasionally solving them? Well, dreams work the opposite for me. All they do is increase my stress and agony. Often, my dreams are simply horror shows, highlighting all the possible things that could go wrong with an upcoming event that I'm nervous about and therefore increasing my fear. Then there are the straight-up nightmares. But we're not even going there, because those are the nights when I'm afraid to go to sleep and I'm so busy right now that I need my sleep.

Anyways, that was this morning. And now I'm in a more contemplative, speculative, not really happy but more content mood. I usually call this particular mood my "lyrical mood". The only reason I can think of for the sudden change is that 1. my dreams have faded and 2. it's an absolutely BEAUTIFUL fall day outside, and things are actually going fairly well so far this afternoon.

Now, when I'm in a lyrical mood that always calls for one thing in particular: poetry. Now with poetry, most of the time I can take it or leave it (with the obvious exception of Shakespeare because I adore Shakespeare and it's always the right time for Shakespeare), but if I'm in just the right mood for poetry I can't get enough. One of my favorite poems is Oscar Wilde's Ballad of Reading Gaol. It's odd really, I'm a visual person rather than an audio person--meaning that I learn better when I see something rather than hear it, so I usually prefer to read poetry rather than hear it spoken. But the first time I read this poem my response was basically, "Meh". It didn't call to me the way it did when I heard an excerpt on Classic Poetry Aloud, a podcast I listen to. After hearing it read out loud by someone who is good at it, wow! It's such a beautiful, sad, bittersweet poem. And it fits my current strange mood. So I'm going to post part of it here and share it with you, my non-existent loyal readers. Helpful hint: if you have the same reaction I did at first, read it out loud or better yet--get someone else to read it to you.

The Ballad of Reading Gaol
by Oscar Wilde

In Memoriam
C.T.W.
Sometime Trooper of
The Royal Horse Guards.
Obiit H.M. Prison, Reading, Berkshire,
July 7th, 1896

I.

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"That fellow's got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.